


The Proper Etiquette for Breaking a Heart

by Tenthsun



Series: Not a Holmes [7]
Category: Cabin Pressure, Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Angst, Brothers, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Rape Aftermath
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-02
Updated: 2014-09-02
Packaged: 2018-02-15 20:29:58
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,361
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2242542
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tenthsun/pseuds/Tenthsun
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He’d never quite managed to shake the fear that she’d finally come to her senses and toss him aside. Alas, Mycroft’s etiquette lessons hadn’t yet progressed far enough to instructing Martin on the proper gloves to wear when opening a letter that he knows will tear his life apart...</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Proper Etiquette for Breaking a Heart

**Author's Note:**

> Part 6 of my ongoing Not a Holmes series. The next part was supposed to be Run, Rabbit, Run. But I realized I was leaving out a few steps in trying to get from point A to what I thought was Point B but turned out to be Point D. It might make better sense if you read Brother Yes. Holmes No. and Simon Says first. TRIGGER WARNING: this is nowhere near as intense as Simon Says but fair warning anyway. We're still dealing with the aftermath of Martin's ordeal with Sebastian Moran.

**_Martin_ **

Even the envelope stationery was of a higher quality than he was. Ripping it open with his common, grubby ( _and shaking, admit it, they’re shaking_ , he thought) little fingers would no doubt outrage the sniffy little gods of etiquette and social rank that Mycroft was teaching him to worship. With his luck, tossing the letter into the fire or sending it back to the recipient would provoke some pissed off higher being into striking him dead with a silver letter opener. So, he gingerly grasped Mycroft’s letter opener – which he was sure cost more than it would to get his van’s engine rebuilt, sans gloves, because,– and carefully sliced the envelope open. alas, Mycroft’s etiquette lessons hadn’t yet progressed far enough to instructing him on the proper gloves to wear when you receive a letter that you know will tear your life apart

_My dearest Martin,_

_It breaks my heart to write this letter to you but I have no choice. That’s not true. I DO have a choice. And this is the choice I have to make. Please, please believe me._

_Forgive me love but I must let you go. It’s not what my heart wants. If I could, I would whisk you behind castle walls, wrap you up in my arms, and rescue you from all the dragons – because you deserve it my love, you do. You’re such a precious thing. You have no idea how sweet your heart is, do you?_

_Believe me, if it was a case of family disapproval, I would not care. I would ignore them and run away with you to camp out in Duxford forever if that’s what it takes. Besides, my mother aside, we all love you. Even Maxi adores you! In his bratty little way. But there have been…words…from certain people in certain quarters who have made it clear that if I continue with you I will be jeopardizing Maxi’s future and that I can never do. I know it sounds crazy. And if I took the time to explain it to you, I would have to unpack a tangled knot of royal bloodlines, national security, and old alliances going back to the 13 th century! Unfortunately, they cannot be ignored without endangering my country and Maxi’s throne._

_So farewell my love and forgive me if you can. And if there is anything I may ever do for you in this life, please don’t hesitate to ask. I will always give you anything that I can._

_With all my love and regret,_

_Always your Theresa_

_“I will always give you anything that I can.”_ _Except your heart_ , he thought bitterly.

He supposed he should have been gratified that the fine black ink on the creamy, expensive paper showed evidence of being smudged by what his bruised ego would like to have assumed were tears. He supposed he should have been angry or sobbing. Besides earning his pilot’s license, winning Theresa had been the best thing that ever happened to him. Best of all, it had been a complete fluke. In one stroke, he’d been handed the heart of a beautiful woman - a princess no less! – and the hope of actually having a life, a family, and a future besides just flying. The fact that he had no clue as to how he’d done it hadn’t stopped him from gingerly, oh so gingerly, (and always waiting for the inevitable crash and burn) reaching out and taking it. And despite the softness of her hands and body and hair; despite her jaunty confidence and self-possession that made him feel that, for once, he could handle anything; he’d never managed to shake the fear that she’d finally come to her senses and toss him aside.

Well. At least he could congratulate himself on the accuracy of his foresight.

Whether it was that foresight or the lingering effects of his sojourn with Col. Sebastian Moran, the realization of it had left him numb. He should be crying. He should be hurt. He felt nothing – well nothing besides a bittersweet ruefulness, a sense of “ _Of course it would end like this; how could he expect his life to turn out any other way_?” And his eyes remained stubbornly dry. Of course he had been a fool to think she would stay with him, that she _could_ stay with him. He was beneath her – as borne out by Mycroft’s absurd attempt to make him over into his own image.

After being left to die by Moran, being liberated by Mycroft’s operatives, and finally being released from the hospital, he had found himself installed in a modest bedroom in Mycroft’s London home. Well, modest was a relative term. First of all it was a bedroom suite. Second of all, it was almost as large the attic apartment in which he’d crammed his whole life for 9 years, and yet he was only expected to _sleep_ there. Mycroft had taken him on a tour of the house, introduced him to the domestic staff, and put him on a schedule that included everything from daily sessions with a psychiatrist (house calls and anti-depressants included), regular exercise with a physical therapist, and three square meals a day. He’d never been so fully furnished, fed, or freaked out in his life.

On top of that, Mycroft had taken it upon himself to personally instruct Martin on how someone of his – pardon, _their_ class should behave. Choosing the right fork, using the correct form of address and wearing the right clothes were all part of the curriculum. He now had a wardrobe with more pieces – including casual jackets, dinner jackets, country house jackets and tuxedo jackets (black and white tie), not to mention ties, vests, handkerchiefs, shirts, shoes, socks, cufflinks, jumpers and even hats! – than he knew what to do with no matter how many times Mycroft showed him.

He felt like a bird in an overstuffed cage.

No one would tell him why he couldn’t go home to Fitton or Wokingham. He had tried, a month after being moved into Mycroft’s house. No one had said he couldn’t go out so he’d gone. Mycroft’s insistence on giving him an allowance as well as the run of the house had made it ridiculously easy. Mycroft had already had his meagre possessions including his uniform packed up and stored at the London house. So there actually was no need to go there…well, almost no need. But he couldn’t face anyone at MJN yet. The hospital, where he’d been obviously ill and out of it and not at all expected to hold up more than a fragment of a conversation, had been one thing. Facing them while he was fully awake and finally able to communicate was another. He couldn’t face the inevitable questions, the “What happened, Martin?” with the unspoken pressure to recount every single sordid detail. He’d already done that, repeatedly, to Mycroft’s interrogators as well as to the psychiatrist Mycroft had assigned him. The thought of doing it for people he wanted, no _needed_ , to think well of him made him physically ill.

So he’d gone home to Wokingham.

It had been a mistake. He didn’t know what he’d wanted – confirmation that he’d been a real person once before Moran had turned him into a _thing_ , evidence that he could exist outside of the creature at the center of Mycroft’s Pygmalion project, or proof that he wasn’t still a prisoner. He didn’t know. The only thing he’d accomplished was an expansion of his nightmares. In addition to Moran tearing him apart, he now dreamed of the baffled revulsion he’d seen on Caitlin’s face, the frightened worry he’d seen on his mother’s (yes, _mother_ , she was still his mother no matter how many documents or details Mycroft thrust at him), and the anger and contempt on Simon’s. Of course, falling apart in his mother’s kitchen hadn’t helped. He still wasn’t sure what had happened, how it had started. Probably something Simon had said – not that Simon would have been wrong. All he could be sure of was that he’d wound up weeping and slumped on the tile floor surrounded by broken crockery, pieces of which were embedded in his bleeding hands.

Clearly not his best moment.

To add to that fresh humiliation, Mycroft’s men had appeared as if out of nowhere, scooped him up, walked him to one of Mycroft’s ubiquitous black luxury cars and whisked him back to London. He was sure he had protested. He was sure it had made absolutely no difference. One had driven the car up the A4, the other had treated his hands, and they’d handed him over to his psychiatrist for an injection of extra strong sedatives while Mycroft, lips thinned, arms folded, and brow furrowed, had looked on.    

Well. At least he knew the limits of his freedom now.

No one would tell him why, half-brother or not, Mycroft Holmes, obviously a man of genuinely scary power and influence, would even bother with him. He had spilled his guts to Mycroft’s interrogators and could hardly have any strategic value at this point. Martin could hardly claim to understand the workings of the British secret service or the British upper class, but he was smart enough to know he wasn’t worth the effort. Self-pity aside, he had nothing to offer him. All he added to Mycroft Holmes’ life was a mess that took more effort than it was worth to clean up.   

So it was entirely sensible for Theresa to shed herself of this mess. Even if she didn’t mind wading into the much that was his life, it would be irresponsible of her to expose Maxi. The cold hard truth was that while he might have been barely acceptable before Moran, someone easy to tuck out of the way as needed to avoid smirching the royal portrait now he was simply a stench that couldn’t be ignored. The fact that Mycroft seemed to see it as his duty to turn his youngest brother into something that wouldn’t frighten the horses or servants only confirmed the fact.

He was so far beneath Theresa that even when his life – astoundingly, now that he looks back – was good, he had been caught between laughing and wincing every time she paraded him before her royal relatives, just imagining what people thought. _Isn’t that sweet? Look at the princess with her idiot boy toy. How adorable!_ That was the kinder, gentler version his imagination supplied. The actual version had left him just short of trembling as he watched her relatives direct their stony gazes down their noses at him while their security staff discreetly palmed their carefully concealed radios and firearms. Even the domestic staff despised him – most likely for his impertinence. _How dare this peasant bed a princess? Just who the hell did he think he was?_ Explaining that it was Theresa who had pursued him, that he remained abjectly grateful for any crumb of affection she tossed him, and that she was unwarrantedly generous and adoring of his unworthy self would have made no difference. He was an interloper who hadn’t had the good sense to stay in his place.  So he must be punished. He could only imagine them checking their watches to see just how long it would take before she came to her senses and they could safely eject him from their rarefied circle.

Of course there had been one guest who hadn’t felt the need to be quite so discreet.

It had been – well at that point he’d lost all count of the number of their dates. That glorious weekend in Gstaad where he’d cheerfully made a fool of himself on the slopes and stumbled like an idiot through his inadequate attempts at German had knocked all thoughts of numbers out of his head – had knocked EVERY thought out of his head. He had never felt so good. It had been so long since he’d been with someone. Embarrassingly, he’d wanted to cry when they’d finally had to part ways to return to their separate homes.

That felt like a lifetime ago.

Where had all that emotion gone?

 _You left it on the gritty, grimy floor of the make-shift dungeon Moran kept you in_ , his mind supplied unhelpfully.

Understandable. Before, he had merely been unworthy, an easily overlooked and presumably soon-discarded misfit in the royal parade. Now. Now he was… Now he was something even _he_ didn’t want to touch.

He had meant to lay the letter gently on the writing desk before finding a safe place to store it out of sight and mind in one of the locked drawers. Instead he found himself next to the fireplace, staring at the fire as the paper’s edges turned orange, then black before curling up and crumbling out of existence and wishing he could do the right thing and disappear with it.

 

**_Mycroft_ **

Mycroft Holmes hated uncleared messes. Political, personal, it didn’t matter. His whole world consisted of avoiding or cleaning up messes whether they were created by governments, gangsters or everything in between. Master criminal James Moriarty had dubbed him the Ice Man. He had only been partially correct. Mycroft was, in fact, the Clean-Up Man.

At the moment he was up to his elbows in cleaning up the mess that was his newly discovered half-brother, Martin Crieff.

Mycroft was not a sentimental man. He was however a loyal one. Whatever his thoughts on the worth of Martin Crieff – and they were, admittedly, a tad colorful – he had an undeniable obligation to see to his health and welfare. It was a bit of an uphill struggle. As the fully legitimate sons of Sigur Holmes, grandson of Viscount Holmes, Mycroft and his younger brother Sherlock had been raised with every social and material advantage as befitted sons of the aristocracy. As the son of their mother Vivianne’s mésalliance with a lowly RAF pilot, Martin had been adopted out and raised by the exceedingly common Crieff family. True, they tended more toward the middle rather than working-class end of the social hierarchy, guaranteeing a certain, workable level of education and decorum in Martin. Nevertheless, the man had certain glaring deficiencies that would make him a liability in the drawing rooms of the social circle to which he rightfully belonged. Because, while Martin’s father – admittedly a decorated war hero – hailed from solidly working-class Aberdeen, their shared mother had been a celebrated concert pianist and one of the Vernet heiresses. By rights Martin should have been raised in the same over-privileged opulence that had cradled his brothers. Instead he’d spent his life scratching and scraping to finance his improbable dream of flying while clawing for any scrap of praise or recognition from his rather indifferent adopted family.

It was a singularly wasteful exercise in Mycroft’s opinion. The lack of money combined with the inheritance of their mother’s high-strung temperament had done Martin no favors. If Mycroft liked to see himself as a raptor perched high on a cliff  above it all, still and quiet, his sharp eyes seeing everyone and everything as he calculated the optimum strategy; and Sherlock could be seen as one of the big, dark jungle cats set to pounce on anything that captured his eye or curiosity; Martin could best be described as a hapless Peter Cottontail, madly scrambling to nick a carrot or escape Farmer McGregor. Mycroft or Sherlock had the skill and aggression to face down a predator, whether physical, political or social. Martin however had all the survival instincts of a twitchy rabbit, always poised to duck and run from the first sign of a predator. Mycroft and Sherlock could survive alone in harsh, unprotected territory. Martin would be eaten alive. He needed the safety of a herd - clutch? flock? What _did_ one call a gathering of rabbits? – and an underground warren. Unfortunately, neither Sherlock nor Mycroft was a pack animal.

Since Mycroft had installed Martin in his home, he’d tried to instruct him in the fundamental social skills that equipped the children of the aristocracy to safely navigate the shark-infested waters of your average drawing room or country house weekend. That’s what he’d told Martin. It was a lie of course. He’d had to give Martin some kind of rationale for virtually holding him hostage. He could have told him that he had no intention of turning his latest little brother loose in a world any member of the various security forces, friendly or otherwise, could make a play for him. They wouldn’t succeed but the attempt would create an unholy mess once Mycroft’s connection to Martin was widely known. But now was the time, while Martin was still fragile, still vulnerable enough to mold, to attempt to turn the rabbit into a fox. Of course he couldn’t hold Martin forever. He knew this. However, he had yet to decide whether the effort would bear fruit. Which is why he had been stunned to learn of Martin’s romance with a princess. A _princess_ of all things! Abruptly, Mycroft dropped his newspaper and closed his eyes as he pinched the bridge of his nose. He felt a Sherlock-sized headache coming on.  

It would never do, of course. Princesses were dull, dynastic creatures at best and dangerously political ones at worst. Martin’s social deficiencies aside, Mycroft had yet to get the all-clear from Martin’s security-cleared therapist that, while Moran had ravished his brother’s body, the colonel had not done the same thing to Martin’s mind – at least not deliberately as part of a strategic objective. Between Martin’s skill as an airline pilot and Moran’s known connections to terrorist groups, there was no way Martin could be allowed close contact with anyone in a highly placed position – not as long as there was any chance he could be a sleeper agent. Since the disaster of 9/11, no pilot could escape such scrutiny after suffering such torture. If Mycroft turned out to be wrong about Martin, he would be condemning himself right alongside Martin – and brother or not, Mycroft Holmes would not sacrifice his power, not when it was the only thing either of his younger brothers could count on in their darkest moments – a lesson Martin still had to learn. So, measures would have to be taken. He sighed. His and Anthea’s day had just gotten annoyingly busier.

 

**_One month later…_ **

_**Dateline: ST. FELICITAS, Veronia** – The citizens of this European kingdom’s capital truly lived up to their city’s name today as the palace announced the engagement of H.R.H. Lt. Col. Crown Prince Jean-Michel to H.S.H. Princess Theresa of Liechtenstein. People took to the streets in spontaneous celebration of the impending nuptials, joyously surrounding the palace and requiring an extra contingent of police officers to control the crowds. No date has been set for the wedding yet._

_A decorated pilot serving in the French naval air command, Crown Prince Jean-Michel’s popularity has remained steady despite the public’s wavering affection for his father King Alfonse. An air squadron commander, Prince Jean has served in peace-keeping and combat missions in Mali, Lebanon, and Syria, and has been decorated several times._

_Princess Theresa is the eldest daughter of Liechtenstein’s late King Baldwin and regent for her brother, the current King Maximilian, age 12. She has served as regent since her father’s death left Liechtenstein with a child king. She has built a sterling reputation for her diplomatic skill in representing her country in international negotiations as well as for managing the competing demands of Liechtenstein’s opposing political parties._

_Elsewhere, European stock markets soared at the news. Well-placed sources in Switzerland and London’s banking communities say the marriage portends a closer relationship between Liechtenstein’s banking interests and Veronia’s heavy arms manufacturers which reinforces the international importance of Veronia’s main port. In addition to a commercial shipping hub, the sprawling port is also the site of a U.S naval base. Unnamed diplomatic sources add that Liechtenstein could also expect a closer military alliance with the U.S. which would ensure King Maximillian will reach his majority without military or financial predation from Liechtenstein’s less friendly neighbors._

Mycroft snapped the newspaper closed with satisfaction and took a delicate sip of his tea. It was always gratifying to see the results of putting the right word in the right ear to accelerate events that were always going to be inevitable in any case. Martin would forgive him – if he ever discovered Mycroft’s role at all.

 

**_Martin and Mycroft_ **

**Postal Delivery**

**To** : Martin Crieff  
c/o Quartermaster House, London, UK

 **From** : Monsieur le Chevalier de Saint-Denis  
          Protocol Officer  
          Palais d’Ete, St. Felicitas, Veronia

_Greetings Monsieur Crieff,_

_Forgive the impertinence of my writing to you without a formal introduction however I act at the behest of my master whom you have met._

_The existence of your relationship with H.S.H. Princess Theresa of Liechtenstein has been brought to the attention of my master H.R.H. Lt. Col. Crown Prince Jean-Michel of Veronia. As you are well aware, the burdens of national and dynastic obligations as well as the extreme difference in rank between the Princess and yourself make the continuation of such a relationship untenable. In reliance on your understanding and sense of honor as a citizen of the United Kingdom, please accept this token of gratitude on behalf of Crown Prince Jean-Michel for your gallantry in withdrawing from the field. Enclosed you will find a duplicate of a commission scroll appointing you Captain in the United Air Forces of the Kingdom of Veronia with all the privileges and freedoms accorded to such rank, international recognition in all territories pursuant to the European Union Accord on the Recognition of Noble and Military Titles, as well as the right to wear the captain’s ordinary and dress uniform, hat, gloves, sword and other parts of the regalia of our air force officers at any state or social event. Please expect the aforementioned accoutrements to arrive forthwith._

_This commission is granted by H.M. King Alfonse at the Crown Prince’s personal request. It will remain in effect upon the sole condition that you will refrain from visiting, receiving letters from, or communicating in any way with the Princess. There will be no need to send a reply. This commission takes effect immediately without any requirement of action on your part. Should you have any questions regarding your new status or encounter any difficulties in assertion of your rank, please do not hesitate to contact my office at any time._

_In addition, please allow me to extend my personal congratulations, Capt. Crieff._

_Your servant,_  
 _Le Chevalier de Saint-Denis_

Martin placed the letter and scroll on the desk and opened the small, finely wrought leather case that accompanied it. The sheen on the highly polished metal made him blink. It was his captain’s wings, courtesy of the King of Veronia.  He swallowed back the bile that rose in his throat.

It had been in Monaco that he had met the Crown Prince. MJN had had a layover after flying some high rollers to their favorite casino and Theresa had flown down to meet him and whisked him off to a reception at Grimaldi Palace. The prince had been everything Martin wanted to be and was not: tall, unambiguously handsome, unassailably confident – and practically dripping in medals. He had almost turned tail and run. Theresa had recognized his suddenly intensified discomfort and assumed it was just a spiking of his typical nervousness. But before she could steer Martin away, Jean-Michel had spotted them and was on them faster than Martin thought possible.

He had an engaging smile but something around the edges of that grin reminded Martin of a shark. Nor were his eyes cold, yet looking into them Martin couldn’t repress a shudder. Unfortunately, none of this seemed to register with Theresa.

“Bon soir, Jean-Michel,” she’d said drily in the bemused tone of someone greeting a cherished friend who was both entertaining and troublesome in equal measure.

“Therese,” he’d responded, kissing the back of her hand with a flourish. Martin had the distinct impression the man was doing his best not to laugh at him.

“Martin, may I introduce my childhood nemesis – and erstwhile partner in crime,” she added ruefully, “His Royal Highness Crown Prince Jean-Michel of Veronia. Jean Michel, may I introduce Captain Martin Crieff.”

Jean-Michel put his finger to his lips “Shh,” he chided her. “We swore each other to secrecy, remember? I still live in fear of your mother finding out who released all those birds from her aviary.”

Jean-Michel and Theresa had laughed like old conspirators before launching into a recollection of childhood memories wreaking havoc together and separately in their respective palaces. Martin had stood quietly, his responses limited to politely interested smiles and variations of “Mmm” “Oh yes” and “Do tell?” while trying not to look like the dispirited little “before” side of a fitness ad or recruitment poster.

It was when Theresa had excused herself to fetch them all fresh cocktails that Jean-Michel had struck.

Stepping into Martin’s personal space, the man had levelled a coolly evaluating stare up and down Martin before drawling, “So… captain is it?”

“Um, yes,” he stammered, “yes, that’s me although, not really a military captain or anything, not like yourself, your prince-uh, Michel, er, I mean Jean-Michel, um, yes.”

“Your Royal Highness will do,” Jean-Michel said. “Unlike Therese I don’t coddle my inferiors.” He cocked his head to one side, hands neatly behind his back. “You do realize she’s slumming don’t you? Even princesses need a holiday and certainly none of us would begrudge Therese her toys. After all she does work so hard in standing in for Maxi. But you don’t actually think this can continue do you?”

Martin swallowed, unconsciously leaning back, hands tightening on his empty glass. No, he _hadn’t_ thought it was leading anywhere – mostly because he was too dazed to think past the fact that it was happening at all.

“You’re a citizen of the United Kingdom are you not?”

Martin blinked stupidly at the non sequiter. “…Yes?” he squeaked, quailing inwardly at the wavering voice.  

“Well, you of all people should understand that relations between royalty and commoners can be quite a minefield,” Jean-Michel continued smoothly. “Pity your Princess Diana never understood that don’t you think?” He smiled savagely before downing the dregs of his cocktail.

Martin could only nod mutely. Thankfully, from the corner of his eye he thought he saw a flash of Theresa’s distinct, rose-colored gown – the only woman wearing just that shade – from the corner of his eye.

And just like that, Jean-Michel’s claws were sheathed, a neutrally polite smile back in place. “Step lightly won’t you? And don’t get comfortable,” he said quietly, just before Therese reached them, oblivious to the tense tete a tete she’d just missed.

Jean-Michel had excused himself moments later, pleading the need to make nice with the diplomats present. Martin had watched him go, unwilling to believe he’d heard what he thought he’d heard and unable to come to any other conclusion. Happily, Theresa had distracted him by mischievously plying him with a lethal combination of cocktails before pulling him outside to dance - gracefully on her part, awkwardly on his – beneath the stars. The next day’s hangover had blurred his memories of the night before, submerging almost everything but Theresa. Yet the memory of Jean-Michel had not completely disappeared. He refused to believe he was important enough for anyone to threaten. Yet the memory lay simmering underneath waiting for something to bring it up to the surface.

His hand tightened on the leather box so hard his knuckles cracked. He knew what kind of box this was. He knew what he’d find inside it.

Slowly, he opened the box, catching his breath as his eyes fell on the gleaming captain’s wings.

He had always wanted to join the Royal Air Force. He’d never told anyone – well, no one but his dad. Not his dad anymore but still the man who’d raised him. It’s not like it should have been a secret. He’d spent 10 years in the Air Cadets rising to the rank of junior corporal. How anybody could expect that he’d want anything else would be ludicrous. His dad had warned him that entry requirements were tough and even if he did get in, he wouldn’t necessarily get to fly. But he never even made it past the recruitment desk. His documented inner ear abnormality although entirely airworthy, the Cadet Corps leaders had assured him, was nevertheless not airworthy enough to join the RAF. Even if he could somehow get a waiver to join, he’d never be allowed to fly. The high altitude aerial maneuvers of a fighter jet would have caused him to pass out and kill himself and anyone else below him in the inevitable crash. Besides he hadn’t wanted to be a minion. He’d wanted to be a master, a master of his own fate.

So he’d turned himself to getting his commercial pilot’s license. If he couldn’t fly combat jets, he’d fly commercial ones. If he couldn’t be an RAF captain, he’d be an airline captain. The revelation that he’d been adopted and that his biological father had actually been in the RAF as a flight lieutenant literally shot down over the South Atlantic in the Falklands War had made his personal reality implode. The collateral realization that he hadn’t been good enough to follow in his biological father’s footsteps hadn’t been any help.

Now life had seen fit to hand him a genuine military commission. He was officially an air force captain. True it wasn’t the RAF but still it was a REAL air force. Yes, it was a bribe. Yes, he’d lost Theresa – assuming he’d ever really had her anyway. Yes, it came from a man who’d all but threatened his life and stolen Theresa in the first place…but some craven, greedy – or was it starving? - part of him had pushed him to pick up that box and trail the tips of his fingers lovingly across the wingtips of that pristine, polished metal. He had the legal right to wear these. He had the right to wear the uniform and the hat and the sword – he got a sword? – and the gloves and any other part of the regalia. He was a captain, a REAL captain, an AIR FORCE captain. In any reckoning, he would finally, TRULY outrank Douglas. What would his unruly, undermining first officer make of THAT? Or the Fitton ground crew? Or his family? What would his broth- adopted brother _Simon_ say?

Those idle, self-serving thoughts stuttered to a stop as his eye fell on the tiny paper that stuck out of the back of the box. His eyes narrowed almost to the point of crossing as he zeroed in on it. What was _that_? Without a thought of the damage he could do to the container of his precious medal, he dug his fingernails along the seam that separated the velvet inlay from the leather itself. Surprisingly, it gave way without too much effort. He pulled the velvet-lined tray out intact and stared down at the plain white paper. It was a note.

_Crieff, well done! I thought you deserved a little something after surviving your time with Moran. Most don’t you know. Pity._

_Jean-Michel_

Box and wings went ricocheting across the room to bounce off the opposite wall as Martin fell to his hands and knees and vomited, over and over again. As his stomach tried to heave itself inside out, his brain stuttered and stopped and tried to restart, but everything had short circuited. Nothing would connect. And his lungs had decided to join the party by expelling every last ounce of air and refusing to take in anymore.

Somewhere in the midst of this, on the dim edges of his consciousness he heard the rapidly approaching sound of shoes running across a parquet floor before the door of the study slammed open and someone threw their arms around him. Almost before he registered it he was hauled to his feet and dragged over to the leather sofa. Unfortunately he had just enough sense to realize that the arms and hands that were manhandling him were male and he reacted. The man behind him grunted as, driven by terror, Martin drove his elbow into his attacker’s solar plexus then threw himself forward to escape. Unfortunately his pursuer refused to give up so easily. Doubled over in pain, he nevertheless lurched forward to grab Martin’s ankle, tripping him and forcing Martin to fall face first to the floor. Martin’s shout and the sickening crack of his breaking nose echoed through the room mixed with the heavy breathing of his assailant’s exertion. Ignoring the agony shooting through his skull and radiating across his face, Martin rolled to his back and kicked out with his feet. His opponent yelled in surprise as the sole of Martin’s shoe connected with the man’s midsection. Martin stared wide eyed and frozen as a lanky figure crumpled to the floor and lay there groaning. Suddenly realizing he was free, Martin scrabbled to his feet and lunged for the open doorway – only to be knocked backward as he collided with another hard male body.  Before he could roll over and crawl away he was hauled to his feet again, even more roughly than his first attacker, his feet barely touching the floor.

“Noooooo!” he howled, wrenching himself violently left and right to no avail. Another man came through the door to grab and immobilize his kicking feet as Martin continued to shout “Stop! Stop it! Let me go! Lemme go! _Lemmego_!” before a meaty hand came down upon his mouth, silencing his cries. Still wrenching and writhing, his arms flailing as he tried scratch and claw at his captor’s face, he felt himself carried over and flung onto the sofa. Before he could even take advantage of that miniscule second of freedom, he winced as he felt a needle plunged into his arm, right through the cloth of his shirtsleeve. Within moments, he was going limp, the energy draining from his limbs, the terror receding into the grey abyss that had opened up beneath him.

“Thank you, Smithson.”

Tongue stilled by whatever drug they’d given him, Martin managed to flop his heavy head sideways to see who’d spoken.

Beside the sofa, Mycr- his brother Mycroft was wincing as he hauled himself to his feet, one arm wrapped tightly around his midsection as he slung the other over the shoulder of one of his ubiquitous minions who helped ease him gently into one of the armchairs. Settling himself carefully into the chair, Mycroft dropped his forehead into his hand for several long moments as Martin stared at him dumbly heedless of the blood running from his nose. Whatever they’d given him was quick in disabling his body but slow in disabling his consciousness.

In the silence, one half of his brother’s security detail retrieved the thrown box, medal and note then straightened the furniture Martin’s struggles had thrown out of place. The other half sheathed the hypodermic he’d used to inject Martin while hovering close and keeping a wary eye on him.

Finally Mycroft raised his head. The security officer took that as his permission to approach and hand Mycroft the note and other objects. Martin watched as Mycroft glanced briefly at the box and medal before impassively perusing the note. “I see,” he said eventually. He leveled his gaze on Martin, who continued staring at him, heavy lidded and now fully immobilized by the pharmaceuticals circulating through his veins.

Mycroft continued staring at him for another long moment before turning his attention to the guard who’d handed him the note. “Thomas, please take this to Anthea. She’ll know what to do with it.” His eyes travelled back across the room to Smithson who had remained standing guard over Martin. “Smithson, please call Dr. Parker and have her come here immediately.”

Smithson hesitated. “Are you sure, sir?” he asked.

“Quite sure.”

The man nodded, tossed one wary look at Martin, then followed Thomas out the door.

Mycroft exhaled wearily. “Well, you’ve certainly topped Sherlock’s terrible two’s and his teenaged years _combined_ today.” Still unable to speak or move, Martin could only watch silently as Mycroft winced then rose gingerly from his chair before shuffling, with as much of his tattered dignity as possible, over to Martin’s sofa. Martin stared warily up at him, only his rapidly blinking eyelids – whether from tears or fear he could not be sure – the only part of his body still fully under his control.

“I understand your fear. But you should not assume that note means what you think it does. For all his bluster, Jean-Michel is no match for Moran and he’s smart enough to know it. He knows better than to ever have any kind of direct dealing with the colonel because he wouldn’t survive. As understandably difficult as it is to believe, Moran found you by chance, not design. He took you and held you because you resemble my – our brother. How the prince became aware of your recent history I can’t be sure but I can make an accurate guess. And measures _will_ be taken. In particular, he, and more importantly, his intelligence services, will be appraised of certain new realities in your life that would make it immensely unhealthy for him to continue any sort of harassment of you. He will not bother you again. And Moran will not survive the year.”

He shouldn’t have been able to move, let alone speak, but something, some irresistible drive forced him to push past the drugs in his system to ask for the one thing he needed right then and there. “Promise?” he whispered.

Mycroft stared at him, astonished he could regain enough muscle control to speak. Then, before he could think better of it, he stooped down beside Martin to bring them eye to eye and took the hand that lay limply across Martin’s stomach.

“Yes, Martin,” he said firmly. “I promise.”

 **~Fin~**  

**Author's Note:**

> First, I decided to post this because I was tired of holding up the series trying to get things EXACTLY right. Well screw that! I just want to move forward. Posting this story after a long holiday weekend that still didn't recharge my batteries so it may make no sense, esp. since I didn't have a beta (anyone want to volunteer?). Please send up a flag if it doesn't. If it does, feel free to leave a review. I love praise but I always listen to constructive criticism as well. Pointless negativity will be ignored.
> 
> Second, St. Felicitas and Veronia exist only in my imagination.
> 
> Third, I may update or rework this story at a later date. So if you like this version please make sure to save a copy for yourself.


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